


Rites of Movement

by spoilthevines



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Circus, Alternate Universe - Human, Aziraphale isn't much younger than Crowley despite what the first chapter might be implying, Crowley has sauntered vaguely downwards, Demisexual Crowley (Good Omens), Developing Relationship, Falling In Love, Injury Recovery, M/M, No beta we fall like Crowley, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Doubt, is mild irritation to lovers a tag? because that's what this is, not the classic circus with striped tents though, we go contemporary in this house
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:56:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24880432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spoilthevines/pseuds/spoilthevines
Summary: Anthony used to be an aerial performer, but he’s a yoga instructor now. It's a good job, really. Decent pay, flexible hours. He's doing just fine.And yet, when his old friend (they also had a show together all those years ago, but really, do you have to bring that up?) Anathema tells him that a few of her graduating students are starting a circus company and are looking for someone to help them with their new show, he says yes. Mind you, he’s not going to perform  —  just help with choreographing the acts and making sure the concept for the show shines through.Why not, Anthony rationalizes. Having a creative outlet with no strings attached would be good for him. Do a nice thing and help the kids out, scratch the circus itch (not that he has an itch to scratch, but if he had...), have some fun, and then get back to normal life when they don’t need him anymore. Sounds like a solid plan.Turns out, however, that the group's aerial performer, Ezra, is absolutely not what Anthony expected him to be.Written for Good AUmens event, prompt - Circus.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Background Anathema/Newt, Crowley & Anathema Device
Comments: 8
Kudos: 41
Collections: Good AUmens AU Fest





	Rites of Movement

**Author's Note:**

> *breathes out*
> 
> Here we go! I've started this as a Night Circus fusion, and then it turned out to be anything but. I have the story fully planned out, but I'm not the quickest writer, and I didn't quite find the time to write it an advance, so updates won't follow a strict schedule (but I'll try my best to update every couple of weeks). 
> 
> Title is borrowed from Hozier's "Movement", and that's pretty much the soundtrack for the rest of the fic. 
> 
> It's at E, but the porn would be skippable if that's something you aren't into. It's not a horny fic overall. We are going to mope and doubt ourselves instead.
> 
> And here's a cover for you, if you want (drawn by yours truly back in May when I was supposed to be editing the first chapter): https://66.media.tumblr.com/e00bb24446e2a2909bf44c70a5d3080e/b2dc60f8d6046f47-fb/s1280x1920/1e33ea6e3bbb2b319fc7c35fed95af8cf253aa71.png

“How would you like to become a founding member of a circus company?”

Anthony nearly chokes on his drink. 

Ana (name is actually Anathema, but maybe don’t try calling her that until you get to know her for a bit – say, for a decade) looks at him expectantly, then takes a sip from her glass filled with something purple, frothy, overall resembling a potion and smelling strongly of gin.

That’s a weird proposition, even for Ana – but not too weird, come to think of it. Like Anthony, she’s graduated from the National Centre for Circus Arts (which is a few minutes away from the bar they are currently in – really, it’s a bit ridiculous he still spends so much time in the area after all these years). So, it’s only natural that circus comes up in their conversations now and then – _unlike_ Anthony, Ana hasn’t given up on it, and even though she isn’t performing as much as she’d maybe like, she still very much runs in the circles (or runs in circles, depending on your point of view). A gig here, a teaching job there. So, yeah, they end up talking about circus things, and she sometimes runs performance ideas by him, and asks for his opinion. That’s not too weird, right? Giving your ex-colleague advice on something that you haven’t been doing for...

His thoughts are interrupted by a loud sip – too loud to be unintentional. Oh, right, they were talking, and she’s just asked him a question, which, presumably, calls for an answer. That one’s easy, he already got there on his own.

“Ana, what are you talking about? You know full well I haven’t touched a prop in half a decade now, and have no intention of doing so.”

She shrugs. 

“Yeah, I’m aware. Nobody’s asking you to perform, dumbass. One of the kids from last year’s graduates called me up last week. He and his friends have this concept…”

She pauses, takes another sip of that potion of hers. 

“Actually, I’m not going to tell you – you are much more tolerable when you’re curious. All you need to know is that they have a solid idea for a show, and they are good performers, but they aren’t sure how to get it off the ground properly and make this actually happen. So, Adam asked me if I’ll help, and I told him that I will.”

“And your idea of helping is bringing in your incompetent friend?” 

Starting with appropriate levels of self-humiliation, Anthony, good for you. 

“Well, I’m bringing myself in, to start with. But I need someone to bounce my ideas off, don’t I?”

That’s low. 

“Have you lost the rubber duck I got you last Christmas exactly for that purpose?”

“No, I think it’s at Newt’s. But you have two advantages over a rubber duck…”

“Oh, how generous.”

“You were just saying how a duck would be a suitable replacement for you, so yeah, I _am_ being generous here. And don’t interrupt me. Actually, that’s an advantage a duck has over you – it doesn’t interrupt.” 

She downs the rest of her cocktail. 

“Where was I? Right, ducks and advantages,” She’s looking at him with an _expression_ , but the dim bar lighting reflecting in her glasses makes it difficult to decipher, so he doesn’t bother to. “I miss working with you, Tony, believe it or not. And I think you miss working with me too, but, more than that, I think you miss the circus.”

 _No, he doesn’t._ Anthony tries to say that much, but doesn’t really get a chance to before Ana cuts him off.

“No-no-no, you don’t get to interrupt me again, you shut up now and listen. Be a good duck and take in an opinion.” Why does she have to get all serious like that? It’s unnerving. “How many routines and performances have we discussed just in the last year? At least a dozen. And yeah, I ask your opinion on them, that’s on me. But I know you, and I know how you talk about things that you have no interest in, and your reaction to those is not that at all.”

It’s ridiculous how she thinks she knows him so well. 

“So, consider this an intervention. You need to let some creative steam out.”

He’s not convinced by this, not really.

“So what, is this a rescue mission for poor me, ready to blow up from those unlet creative steams?” 

“Don’t go thinking this is all purely for your benefit. I’m not a charity for those who suffer from a debilitating chronic condition of being Anthony Crowley. Well, I’m not _only_ thatcharity. Multi-faceted, me.”

She takes a breath, then continues.

“The kids are all over the place, really, didn’t get anything done in about a month now – they just keep circling around the same ideas and not settling down on anything in particular. Would be a shame to see another good concept go to waste just because no one could actually make a decision. And I don’t want to take on the full responsibility of herding them, I do plenty of that stuff at work already. And, well, out of work as well – you know how Newt gets sometimes.” 

That’s fair. 

“So, well, that’s the gist of it. I don’t want to force you to get into anything you don’t want to, but just... think about it, yeah?” She doesn’t sound as convinced as she was just a few seconds ago. Very gentle now, like if she was talking to a wild animal. “You don’t have to decide now – actually, I’d prefer if you didn’t. Let it sink in. Brew a bit inside that ginger head of yours.” Well, there’s the annoying girl he’s used to, here we go, almost back to normal. “We’ll be meeting all together on Saturday, I’ll text you the address. I know you don’t work on Saturdays anyway, so drop by, see where this all is going, and then make a decision. I have a feeling you might want in after you meet everyone.”

Aargh. Not _that_ again. 

“Ana, come on, I’m not going to…”

“Ah-ah. I said, no decision-making now.”

“But...”

“No buts, Tony. Although,“ she giggles. “On the topic of butts...”

Oh, here it goes, wait for it.

“... how is your dating life going? Haven’t heard any updates on that dead thing for a while. Care to share anything with the class?”

A-a-and score. The menace is back to normal. Thank someone. 

***

The rest of the evening goes more or less as usual. They leave the whole dating subject alone as soon as Ana lets out all the bad puns she had in her (he doesn’t date, not really – the whole concept of fishing for potential sexual partners feels a bit foreign to him, and Anathema knows that full well, but it’s an easy thing for her to joke about and for him to pretend to be offended by – they’ve been doing this for a decade now, so it’s weirdly comforting). Anthony then barely avoids getting a drink in his face after he gets a bit too enthusiastic about his theories on the soon-to-come final season of Game of Thrones (“No, they won’t do Daenerys dirty like that, that’s just stupid, why are you like that?!”). They bond back again over the latest marketing pitch that one of yoga studios he’s teaching in came up with, although the reasons why they are irritated by it are, well, a bit different (“Of course red light won’t make you less stressed because of some mitochondria nonsense...” “Yeah, I’m always impressed by how they turn around valid scientific concepts…” “...your aura would drink it up, and you’ll probably get angry!” “... I should have known you’d be like that”). Ana rants about her students in the adult evening classes as well. It’s all very normal. 

By the last call Anthony gets relaxed enough to hug Anathema goodbye for a bit longer than the usual half a second long brush of bodies. Feels good. He watches her shuffling in her skirts towards the Shoreditch High Street overground station, and then lights up a cigarette and starts walking vaguely in the direction of the bus stop (yeah, he has a physical job, and maybe should care a bit more about his health and try to quit smoking, but then he shouldn’t really be drinking on a school night either, and where that went, and who cares anyway). 

He could, actually, walk up to Hoxton Square, that’s an idea. Just a couple of streets to cross, a few minutes to walk – and then he can finish the cigarette right in front of the Circus Centre entrance. Pretend he’s 23 again, has more than just one friend, and a bright future full of exciting opportunities ahead of him. 

Fucking pathetic. 

He’s not 23 now, is he? He’s 34. His only friend is now on a train to her boyfriend’s apartment in Peckham, and he probably won’t talk to her for another couple of weeks except for a casual meme being sent over. The only opportunity ahead of him is something like fucking off this island and opening up a yoga retreat centre somewhere warm, like Bali, but that doesn’t really excite him at all. He’ll have to actually start working with people then. Sounds like too much work, and for what? Just to say that he’s achieved something? Well, not everyone gets to be the main character in this life. Someone has to be a supporting character. Or an extra. 

Anthony isn’t quite sure which one of last two he is, but he’s okay with this either way. Trying to jump over your head and become more than you are supposed to be doing lands you in hospitals, he found out. They do need extras in hospital scenes, right? That’s where main characters get to experience something life-changing. Love confessions on deathbeds followed by miraculous healings, that sort of thing. Like in that ridiculous circus musical movie that he definitely haven’t watched five times, stupid rich boy finally coming back to consciousness to see pretty acrobat girl crying by his bedside and deciding she loves him now. They definitely had to hire a bunch of extras to fill in all those beds in the hospital room. 

He goes straight to the bus stop, without any diversions. None of the Shoreditch usual nightlife characters bother him while he waits for the bus, the bus itself arrives soon enough not to get cold but not until he is done smoking, and the first row on the upper deck is completely empty. Not bad for a supporting character.

Even nice, overall. He could do with nice. 

***

Tony doesn’t think about Ana’s proposal until he’s back home after running the morning class at a nearby studio – he barely thinks about anything, if he’s being honest, focusing all his attention on walking the group through the appropriate amount of sun salutations despite being dangerously nauseous (might be incense, might be yesterday’s cocktails, might be both). It’s only when he’s back in his kitchen, grinding coffee, his phone buzzes with a message, and he remembers that Ana was supposed to text him the address for tomorrow. Not that he plans on going there, of course. Just like he told her already, he’s not interested. Doesn’t have the time. Doesn’t have the skills anymore either. Probably never had them in the first place. Not that it matters.

It’s not Ana. It’s his optician’s, reminding him to reorder contact lenses. 

He does exactly that while the coffee is brewing, then puts together some semblance of a breakfast out of bread that’s going a bit stale, peanut butter and an unripe pear (he almost never remembers to put them into the fruit bowl to actually ripen as they are supposed to – and when he does, they usually go off). Scrolling through his Twitter feed lasts him through eating and the first cup of coffee. Reddit takes care of the second cup, and by the time he finally feels awake, he’s already gotten angry with enough people on the internet for the day, and probably have irritated twice as much, if downvotes are anything to judge by. Not a bad ratio for a half-conscious morning. Anthony’s comfortable with people not liking him. Never was the one to be liked, wouldn’t go to start being liked today.

He doesn’t have any lunch classes on Fridays, so he goes through his full cleaning routine while listening to a podcast about dolphin mating habits. After he’s done sorting the books and hoovering the floors, he pops out to Tesco and grabs some groceries for the weekend. Then it’s more Reddit-scrolling-while-eating (this time it’s a sandwich from a lunch deal – at least the bread is not stale here), and a bit more Twitter scrolling. Some Youtube (coffee equipment reviews). More stupid people in the comments. Some more Youtube (home makeover vlog). And then it’s finally time to leave for his evening classes. 

By the time he gets out of the Tube at Old Street, Shoreditch is already buzzing. He routinely makes his way through the crowds by the pubs and queues by the bars, and then slides into the studio. Says hi to the receptionist (Mary? Kate? She’s been working here since last summer, and he still hasn’t bothered to remember). Changes into his yoga gear (tight-fitting leggings, even tighter fitting tank top – an instructor is basically an exhibit of what you might look like if you keep paying the studio, so part of Anthony’s pay is for showing off; not that he minds). Turns his phone off. 

He greets the students, explains to them all he’s supposed to about the destressing properties of exercising under red lighting (holding off mentioning auras – this kind of clientele won’t take it well), turns the aforementioned red lighting on (the studio starts looking a bit apocalyptic under it, which he finds mildly amusing), and starts his first session for this evening. Despite what the destressing bit might have implied, it is a rather intense workout, and Tony believes in the power of demonstration – so he is sweating almost as much as his group by the end of the hour (however, unlike them, he doesn’t look like he’s about to collapse – he’s been training for several hours almost every day for most of his life, that ought to count for something). 

The next session is supposed to be restorative yoga under pink lighting this time. They didn’t come up with any pseudo-science for that one, so it’s just “affects us emotionally” and “associated with love and affection”, which is both easier and harder for him to say – he doesn’t feel like he’s deceiving people anymore, but it still leaves an unpleasant aftertaste of sounding like a sappy idiot. Exercise is exercise though, and even though the lighting isn’t that helpful as the owners pretend it to be, it’s at least fun, he can’t deny that. So, he just leads people through stretches as he’s supposed to, and when they all say thanks to him at the end of the session and leave looking a bit more human than when they checked in, he feels like he’s actually done something good today. 

It’s not a bad job, is it? Making people a bit healthier and maybe even a tiny bit happier, a small (overpriced) group at a time. And he’s not too bad at it either. Maybe he should lean more into it. Take on a few more classes. Do some charity work maybe – one of the larger studio chains he used to work in always had those special events at pay as you want prices, those sound like a good idea. Or actually sign up as an instructor for one of those overseas retreats? He knows a few people who do that, they’d probably recommend him. See what the hype is about. Maybe Bali would be good for him after all. Oh, and he should probably bother and cook something nice for himself when he gets home. He’s earned a bit of nice today. 

When Anthony turns the phone back on, there’s a new text. 

“6pm tomorrow, 104 Bishop’s Way. That’s Bethnal Green. The doorbell doesn’t work, so just kick the door until someone opens. I’ll see you there.”

He doesn’t reply. 

He ends up grabbing a kebab from the shop near the station, and eats it in bed while watching some reality show on Netflix that showed up in his suggestions (not that they reflect his taste at this point, he just watches everything the algorithm feeds him). He falls asleep somewhere around 3am, wakes up sometime after noon (with his laptop on the other side of the bed, still on), and is seriously set on spending the whole day moping in bed, with the exception of a few scheduled bathroom and food delivery pick up breaks. 

It gets boring a couple of hours in though, so Anthony wiggles himself into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, throws a jacket on, and gets outside. He doesn’t need to get anywhere in particular, so he just walks and walks until he finds himself on the canal, and then walks some more alongside it. He spaces out for a bit, but then is abruptly brought back by a cyclist shouting at him to get out of the way (“You get out of my way, muppet, it’s a pedestrian zone”).

He looks around and notices that there is a smidge too many people around now for his comfort. Joggers jogging, cyclists cycling, dog owners walking the dogs, child owners walking the kids. Fuck, did he just walk all the way to Victoria Park without noticing? Apparently.

Anathema said yesterday they are meeting at Bethnal Green? 104 Bishop’s Way, the address is stuck in his head for some. Shouldn’t be too far from here, if he just crosses the canal… he needs to get out of here, anyway – too sunny, too green, too many people around, and he’s tired. It’s half past five already, he’s been out for a few hours. So much for not getting out of bed. 

The closest station should be just over there, if he remembers it right, just further down this street, what’s it’s name… Oh. Bishop’s Way. He could’ve sworn it’s Hackney Road, but apparently he doesn’t remember this part of the city as well as he imagined.

When he passes by number 104, it feels a bit stupid not to be knocking on the door. It’s not six yet anyway – probably no one’s there yet, and then he can just walk the rest of the way to the station with a clear conscience. He’s tried at least – not his fault no one answered.

So, Anthony knocks on the door, and waits.

**Author's Note:**

> I went deep with world-building here, so the bar's real and I miss it very much (Anathema drinks a Frothy Lady, and even though half of their menu is pink I'd like to think that Crowley's drinking a Heaven and Hell), and the coloured-light dealing yoga studio is also real (if they happen to be here - don't sue me, I've never been, and a friend of mine likes it, it's just Tony who's skeptical but he's a grumpy lad), and everything else is pretty real too (you could trace Tony's route over Street view if you'd really want to).


End file.
